


Satin and Berettas

by aurilly



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: F/M, Sharing a Bed, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 10:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18809248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: Moneypenny's first mission since shooting Bond is also Q's first mission... ever. This would be so much easier if only he didn't have a debilitating crush on her.





	Satin and Berettas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tibby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/gifts).



Q’s first project upon being hired into MI6 was to request a new area for his department, far away from the clacking and gossiping of lesser departments—the ones who wrote briefs instead of code. He thought it would be better for the team’s focus, he explained to M. In their own space, they could more efficiently focus on the threat networks, without being distracted by the chit-chat of the physical. 

He thought he had expressed all that with great conviction and persuasiveness.

M had given every impression of being too busy and important to care, which was the best anyone could hope for; at least she didn’t seem to be paying enough attention to sniff out his true motives. “Very well, then. The wing Q branch has inhabited is in need of a renovation, anyway. It’ll be good to get you lot out of there so I can finally commission the work. Is that all, Q?”

“For today, ma’am.” Q sighed internally at his good luck, and began to back away towards the door, victory tentatively in hand.

But the grande dame was no fool. A wicked, cruelly sarcastic sense of humour lay under all that gruff matronly disdain. She was the kind of woman who knew that the most amusing way to call someone out on their rot was not to call them out at all.

Instead, she called in the one person whom this request had been specifically designed to avoid, whose clacking heels were more dangerous to national security—via Q’s carefully trained equilibrium—than the distractions he had pretended to fear.

Moneypenny, perfect-looking as always in a blue dress that hugged everything just so, entered the room with a light elegance that left Q trying to repress an onslaught of flummox. “Ma’am?” 

“I am assigning you to work with Q to relocate his department into the southwest basement wing. The work should likely occupy you for a couple of weeks. Planning the logistics of this move will likely involve quite a few late-night meetings.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Turning to Q with the kind of wide, mischievous smile she dared not direct at M, Moneypenny said, “Why don’t you stop by my desk on the way out? We’ll block off some times.”

Q, who knew from previous mortifying experience that if he opened his mouth right now, he’d say entirely the wrong thing, bit his lips and patted his own curls, like an idiot. He nodded, as that was the only safe way to make a reply.

Moneypenny stared at him as she might stare at a demented puppy.

“By the by,” M said next, even as she looked down at her stack of classified briefings, “I will need to send the two of you out into the field this week. 003 has sent intelligence that a large arms deal is scheduled to be conducted this Friday at a hotel in Jamaica. All of our other agents are currently on assignment, or are known to the men involved, and the security is reported to be the most advanced 003 has ever seen, requiring short-range destabilizers and reprogramming. Which is why I need you, Q, to go as a potential buyer.”

“But I’m… I’m not field trained,” Q replied, as though that were the most salient of arguments against this plan—more salient than the fact that Q had received zero field training, could barely run for the Tube, and hyperventilated on airplanes.

“That is why I am sending Moneypenny with you, as your handler and as your plus one.”

“I thought I was on suspension,” Moneypenny said, as though that were salient _at all_.

“Suspensions are very easily ended. I am ending yours right now. You can both report to, well, Q branch, in order to plan. Your briefings will follow at your desk. You leave in the morning.”

Looking back, much later, Q suspected that was the old bulldog’s way of giving her blessing. It was also her awful idea of a joke.

* * *

“If you’re doing what I think you’re doing, I will stab your laptop, right in the harddrive,” Moneypenny whispered from her neighboring seat in first class.

“What do you think I’m trying to do?”

“Hack into blackbox to listen in on the pilots’ conversation.”

Q couldn’t quite argue. “What if they’re drunk? Or incompetent?”

Eve groaned. “Why wouldn’t you take the Xanax I offered you?”

“I’m allergic,” he lied. The real reason was because he preferred to wallow in his own panic, no matter how unproductive that was. 

“No you aren’t. I’ve read your file, and your only allergy is to dogs. All you are is a ballache,” she said out of the side of her mouth, even as she graciously accepted two glasses of champagne from the flight attendant. As soon as she had placed them on the trays, she gently shut Q’s laptop. “It’s going to be all right, you know.”

“I’m not ready for this.” Q could feel panic welling as the plane rolled down the runway, getting faster and faster and…

“Which is why I slipped the Xanax into your orange juice.”

Q stared in horror at the empty glass in front of him, and then up at her. “You wouldn’t?”

She smiled wide and dangerous and irresistible. “I’m rather looking forward to this weekend.”

He was out before the wheels had retracted back inside the plane. Definitely before he could ask what she meant by that statement.

* * *

Moneypenny had apparently pre-arranged all this, including for various staff to wheel Q off the plane, into a car, and up into the hotel. A beautifully crafted story about her “boyfriend’s” narcolepsy. Q woke on a chaise lounge beside the sliding doors that led to their ocean-view deck.

“Rather an ignominious entrance into the role, given that I am supposed to be an arms dealer,” he groused, as soon as he could form words around his cotton mouth. He checked his watch: he had been unconscious for almost 12 hours. 

“No one saw us,” Moneypenny called cheerily from the next room. “And if they did, they now think you an epic party person, which is quite in keeping for the role.” 

Q staggered over to her, and felt his heart clench at the sight of her wearing nothing but a bikini and a big straw hat. She had unpacked all of her clothes and was now getting down to the equipment—guns and bugs and communication devices.  
A pair of strappy heels sat piled by the door. She had thrown her suitcase on the sole, and not very big, bed. 

“What are you doing?” Q asked, staring at the bed and allowing himself to fully register what was happening. That he was not only in the field, but in the field with the woman who had rendered him back to the of—kilter and sheepish state of a schoolboy with an embarrassing crush. 

They’d first met on the day of his final interview. She’d been called into M’s office just as he was tugging his arms through the sleeves of his worn blazer. She’d walked in like a deferential goddess, and given him the kind of smile 

“Locking all this down and then going for a swim before the mission begins in earnest. You’ll come, won’t you?” 

She seemed wholly unphased by anything going on here.

Meanwhile, Q was dying by degrees. 

“No, I’d rather work. There’s quite a lot to do. You know. Hacking into the security system, sending Tanner identifications of everyone in the hotel, ensuring the kitchen doesn’t put garlic in my appetizers tonight. And I burn easily,” Q stammered, and wished he hadn’t said that last part. “You… you should swim, however. You haven’t taken a vacation in years.”

Moneypenny cocked her head, like a curious and very pretty bird, letting her curls shake adorably. “How do you know that?”

Q straightened the sweater he still wore, even though it was sweltering. He couldn’t tell her that it was because he’d subtly asked Tanner about her during his first day, trying to keep his eyes elsewhere. It had been after his repeated failure to focus (and it had been doomed to, what with how often she seemed to have reason to stop by Q branch, and to smile at Q’s subordinates, and to cross long legs over the edge of desks), he’d gone to M about moving the department 

Q branch gets files on all MI-6 employees, to monitor their movements while away,” Q half-lied. “Your name came up in a list of people who haven’t been monitored in some time.”

“Hm. Well, you’ll be missed,” she said sweetly before leaving. “I’ll bring you back a daiquiri.”

“Thank you,” Q said, sounding more prim than he intended as he watched her practically float out of the room— _their_ room—half naked and in heels.

As he fired up his equipment, he already began to suspect he’d made the wrong decision. And as he got into the project, he became more and more certain. This was the easiest assignment he had worked on in years. M could have sent a lower-level member of the department. Hell, he could have sent one of the double-ohs, who, despite their Neanderthal ways, had been required to take the most basic of network training, which was all this required.

He couldn’t for the life of him understand why he had been sent, except as a form of torture. Torture that grew ever more painful when Moneypenny returned, dripping and laughing and lovely.

“How was the swim?”

“More useful than I’d expected. I met the cast of characters out there, worked the other girlfriends, and got in a workout all at the same time. You seem all set up in here. How is it coming along?”

“Not too much longer,” he said, even though he’d finished about fifteen minutes before and had spent the remaining time debating with himself about whether or not he should change and join her. But one look at his knobby knees and freckled chest, and he’d talked himself out of it. A woman like Moneypenny would only pity someone like him. No, he’d decided; best to keep his clothes on. 

“I’ll just wash up and then we can go to dinner, yeah?”

“If you like.” 

She looked at him for a minute, hands akimbo, and then shrugged. “What is going on with you? You’ve been green around the gills all week—hell, since I first met you at MI6. I don’t think it’s just because we had to fly here.”

“It’s my first time in the field, is all.”

“This is hardly the field.” 

Q had already showered before connecting his equipment (he did his best work when freshly clean and fortified with tea), so he tried to put some extraneous finishing touches on an already beautiful set-up. However, he kept getting distracted by the _sounds_ coming from the loo. Showering, slipping, hair drying, little hums. Through that door, Moneypenny was standing there with nothing on, and Q’s sweaty palms kept slipping over the edges of the laptop. 

Finally, he gave up and put on his suit. He hadn’t worn one since university.

“Need help with the tie?” 

Q looked up. He hadn’t heard the bathroom door open, but she had emerged, dress hanging slightly less perfectly than usual, but otherwise perfect. She was always perfect. 

“No, but thank you,” he said, and immediately, yet again, regretted it. The idea of her standing so close to him, wrapping her slim fingers around his collar, staring into his eyes all the while, breathing into him…

“Can you do up the back for me? This is what I get for letting the other girls pick out my outfits for me. A dress with only buttons.” She turned around and revealed an uninterrupted expanse of back that went, uninterrupted down to the dimples above her bottom, before the yellow silk thankfully started earning its keep. 

Q gulped and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Of course.”

Once he got into it, he found that there was, indeed, an endless line of buttons to fasten up it. With trembling fingers, Q managed to make it through.

“Who on earth designed this atrocity?”

“Does it look terrible?”

“No, of course not. _You_ look lovely. But then, you always look lovely. I mean, this dress isn’t quite designed for optimal field work scenarios. What if you needed to get in and out of it quickly?”

“Luckily, I’m not a double-oh. At least not yet.”

“Do you want to be?” Q asked, with real curiosity.

“I’m not sure.” She frowned. She sounded oddly vulnerable, in a way she never had before. “You know why I’m on suspension, don’t you? Why am I asking, of course you know, if you know when last I went on vacation.” 

“No one thinks it was your fault. Not even M. Why else would she have sent you into the field before your suspension was over?”

“I can’t imagine. Especially since after reading the brief, I’ve decided that this is the easiest mission that ever was. Either your tech side is the most difficult that we’ve ever had to tackle, or… she thinks I’m not capable of anything more.”

“I’ll have you know that looking after me is no easy task,” Q said, not wanting to hurt her by confirming her worst suspicions. “Nor is pretending to be my girlfriend. I’m quite difficult.”

“You’ve been all right so far. You’ve been all right every time I ran into you in the office. I’m sure any girl would be lucky to hang on your arm.” To match her words, she slung her arm through his and led them to the door. 

“Rather a bony arm, though,” Q said as they left the hotel. “Not like the agents you usually work with.” 

“I’ve only ever worked with 007. Even if that hadn’t gone spectacularly badly in the end, I’ve enjoyed the briefings and everything so far with you rather better.” She drew closer. “By the by, you clean up rather nicely, too.”

Q almost exploded with want, but he thought he did a rather nice job of disguising it with a cough.

* * *

Q had kept asking, all through dinner, what they needed to do, and for whom they needed to look out, but Moneypenny— _Eve_ , she insisted he call her, for fucks sake—kept deflecting. 

Sitting out in the netted porch overlooking the gardens and the sea, and with unlimited glasses of champagne, Q found himself talking. 

(Only once Eve promised him, on the life of the brother he only just found out she had, that being a little tipsy tonight would not hurt the mission.)

Eve talked, too. About life at MI6, about her favorite café near Picadilly, funny stories about commuting. Q found that his dream girl was actually quite a _real_ girl, and he felt even more infatuated with each bit of mundanity she dropped. 

He didn’t seem to have bored her, because by the end of the evening, she was laughing at his wafer dry jokes, and teasing him in the way he remembered real friends having teased him, back when he had a lot of friends and spent a lot less time alone in front of a monitor. 

He remembered intermittently that they were meant to be “playing” at lovers. She was doing a beautiful job, and Q jogged along by simply letting his real feelings show a bit. 

“How did I do?” he whispered as they walked back to the room. “At the role-playing. About you and me, being together.”

“Were you acting?” she asked, somewhat inscrutably. 

At the odd tone in her voice, Q looked over at her, but she was staring to the left, over at the ocean. 

“Of course,” he said.

“Very good job,” she said blandly.

“Are you certain there isn’t anything for us to do tonight? A larger role I need to play? The briefing didn’t give much direction. Only that we were to relieve the arms dealer of his transaction records, and shift the money into other bank accounts.”

“Not tonight,” Eve said, blandly again. “I… It seems that tomorrow will be the best opportunity.”

Q felt that a change of subject was in order, so he transitioned to what seemed to be her favorite subject: the London restaurant scene. Thankfully, he was a proficient, having eaten at the best places… alone at the bar.

By the time they got back to their room, she seemed in better spirits, but Q’s heart had begun to race again. The bed seemed to loom over him, with all its dreadfully uncomfortable insinuations. 

He took advantage of the second room of their suite to change into his pajama set. He felt safe in it, covered. All of that comfort fell apart when he moved through the doorway to find her in a silk nightdress that went only to mid-thigh. She was taking out her earrings, and Q ached for her.

She gave him a small smile, very unlike her usual smirks, as she turned out the light and climbed into bed with him. Unlike Q, who had pulled the sheets up to his chin in an effort to cover any upcoming mortifying physical reactions, she sprawled on top of the sheets.

She flopped over, and accidentally kicked him.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.”

They lay there in silence until Eve blurted out. “I’m sorry. I lied. It’s done. I’ve already got it.”

In the darkness, Q rolled over, getting so close that he could feel her exhaling. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“The memory drive with the transactions. The transfer to Swiss bank accounts. He was out there when I went for my swim. It was child’s play. I’ve had the mission completed all day.”

“You didn’t say anything. Why?”

“You said it yourself. It’s been awhile since I took a vacation.” 

“Is that all?”

In a quiet but unashamed voice, she admitted, “Well, I rather liked being on vacation with you.” 

For all his phobias and neuroses and preference for code over action, Q was no coward. Neither was he an idiot. With an invitation like that… He leaned in.

Unfortunately, he got caught in the many sheets and blankets that he’d swaddled himself in, and ended up too tangled to move.

“What are you doing?” he heard her ask.

“I was thinking of kissing you, but now I’m stuck.”

She let out a peal of laughter, and a moment later, after much more graceful motion, he felt her lips on his. 

When they came up for air, he said, “We aren’t going to tell M that we’ve finished, are we?”

“I think we can milk another few days out of this situation.”

“Excellent.”


End file.
